


Unfinished TMNT Fics

by Nerd_of_Camelot



Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy Illness, Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Donatello (TMNT) Needs a Hug, Michelangelo (TMNT) is Smart but he can't hold a job, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Unfinished Fic Collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:09:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21964102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nerd_of_Camelot/pseuds/Nerd_of_Camelot
Summary: A collection of TMNT fics I probably won't finish but I wanted to post anyway ‾\_(ツ)_/‾
Kudos: 1





	1. idk where i was going with this

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fic where Mikey is somewhat estranged from his family, I guess. I don't remember where I was going with it.

Michelangelo Hamato was 23, better educated than anyone would ever give him credit for, the archetypal jokester of his family for most of his life, it had been almost two years since the last time he was able to hold a steady job, and he was really starting to get desperate.

He’d grown up with three brothers and their father, rather secluded and usually fairly lonely. He loved his family, of course, and as the clown of the family he was always more than happy to lighten the mood when he could. He’d spent his childhood and early teenage years reading comics and drawing his own, and, later, he took to writing as his most common hobby. He got pretty good at it, after a while.

He was homeschooled, of course, and unable to attend college mostly for financial reasons, so after he got his GED at 17 with his brothers, he’d thrown himself into the first job he could get―birthday party entertainer.

All three of his brothers thought it was a waste of time, and that it was a job without any honor or pride. Donnie, at least, had been able to concede that it was a job that made Mikey happy, and that entertaining children really wasn’t  _ that _ bad a job. Someone had to do it, after all.

Leo and Raph hadn’t been quite so understanding, and after the rather strained relationship he’d had with them for most of their teenage years anyway, it wasn’t hard for that to lead to them becoming… Estranged.

But, of course, only having Donnie and his dad to talk to was a serious blow to him.

He was a social guy, by nature, and though he hadn’t gotten along terribly well with Leo and Raph, he’d at least enjoyed their company when they could all relax.

Not having much to keep him happy, his job got harder for him, though he did soldier on for as long as he could, talking to Donnie when both of them weren’t at work and taking the time to meditate with their father in the mornings before work. It was enough to keep him in balance until he got his own place, and then with some minor adjustments (meditating with their father in the evenings  _ after _ work, instead, and then returning home) he was able to keep balance for a while longer.

When Donnie had saved up enough money to start attending college, Mikey’s entire world sort of took a sharp left turn.

Donnie was always busy, even when he wasn’t at work, and Mikey could tell that he was absolutely  _ living _ for it. That was why he didn’t bug him about hanging out, even when he was getting to be quite lonely. He would be fine. He had enough video games to keep him occupied, and meditating with their father in the evenings let him try to clear his mind in preparation for the next day.

… But, too soon, he was unable to keep it up any longer.

He just didn’t have the motivation, nor the good mood, to entertain kids.

The first morning that he woke up and just couldn’t justify going to work absolutely devastated him, because he recognized it for what it was, and it had only made things worse.

By the third month of Donnie’s schooling, Mikey was out of a job and feeling awful about it. He felt like a disgrace for not even being able to hold onto a job that had made him happy.

He stopped going to see his father in the evenings, because he couldn’t bare to tell his father and Donnie, should his brother happen to pop out of his room long enough to notice he was there, that he no longer had a job.

He stopped answering Donnie’s texts, on the rare occasions they came.

For a while, Donnie was much more attentive to him; he recalled a week or so where Donnie texted him every single day until he finally just turned his phone off and curled up in his bed to feel like crap in peace.

By the time he’d turned the phone back on, Donnie’s last text had more or less told him that if he wouldn’t even answer his texts, he wasn’t worth contacting in the first place.

Tellingly, Mikey hadn’t answered that text, either.

He’d managed to get a new, much less fun job within the next few months. He was just shy of his 19th birthday, at the time, and he resigned himself to monotonous, boring days quietly shuffling around in the stockroom of a shop and keeping the place clean, stocked, and organized.

He lasted a little over two years in that stockroom before someone who wasn’t cut out for front end work was quietly transferred to train under him. Once they knew what they were doing, one of the managers (one who had always disliked him, he knew) decided he no longer needed to work there, since they were fully staffed in the stockroom.

Since then, he’d managed to hold a few short-term gigs. He hadn’t had a single application for long-term employment followed up on. He’d taken to trying to sell his writing ability online, at some point, and it made him a decent amount of money… When he could be assed to actually write, that was.

Since he wasn’t a complete idiot, despite what his brothers may well believe by this point, he wasn’t exactly low on funds at any point since moving out to live on his own. He put away enough of each of his paychecks every time he got paid that he had very little to worry about, even when he was out of work. He certainly lived more modestly now, though, than he had in the early days.

It had been four years since he spoke to his family or went to see any of them, he was always tired, he had absolutely no friends, and if he spent more than $250 on food in a month without having a gig that would replace that money quickly he’d be completely out of money before the end of the year. He was miserable. He had no motivation to write, most of the time, so commissions were usually off the table even if they paid well when he could make himself do them. He had no motivation to get out of bed, sometimes, and though it was undoubtedly bad for him it definitely saved him money to stay in bed, most of the time.

He didn’t run any fans in his home unless it was unreasonably hot without one. He turned off lights as soon as he left the room, if he even turned them on at all when he entered. He rarely, if ever, played video games anymore. He took fifteen-minute showers, now, and boy if Leo could see that he’d be so impressed he might keel right over. He ate the cheapest junk he could get from the store, when he actually ate.

He did everything he could to keep his costs down, was all he was saying.

But he hadn’t had a steady job in two years and he hadn’t had a gig or had his commissions open for about three months now.

He was running low on money.

By the end of the year, if he didn’t get a job he wouldn’t have enough money to buy food  _ and _ pay rent for the month, let alone just rent the month afterwards.

… It was September.

In three months, he would be completely screwed out of food, a house, and probably a few of his possessions too.

Now, see, it was not for lack of trying that he hadn’t had a steady job in two years, and he really felt the need to assert that to himself again before he could start feeling guilty about it. He had put in more applications than he could even  _ remember. _ He had applied for every single job that he was qualified for several times over, every time the position came back up. He’d done  _ everything _ in his power… But he could only land temporary positions. Things that lasted a couple of days to a couple of months, at most.

He was getting desperate.

And who could blame him?

He had three months before he found himself on the streets begging for scraps with all the other homeless mutants. That was enough to terrify anyone into desperation.

But, really, he’d pretty much resigned himself to it at this point. What else could he do? He was already running himself ragged when he could get out of bed. He had no motivation to write and all of the jobs he could feasibly do weren’t calling him.

He was 23, and he was about to be homeless.

He sighed, turning onto his back in bed and folding his hands over his stomach so he could stare at the water stained, cracked plaster ceiling. He felt like absolute crap. He  _ always _ felt like absolute crap. He didn’t have any friends or amicable family to speak of, and while he would readily admit that half of that was entirely his fault, it still sucked.

He grabbed his phone from the bedside table and unlocked it, flicking around mindlessly through his apps and spending a few minutes playing a dumb idle game that didn’t require any motivation or real concentration from him.

… Before long, he found himself staring at his messages with Donnie, like he always did.

Even now, the last text ever sent was Donnie’s, from four years ago.

_ Don: You know what, Mike? Fine. _

_ If you’re just going to ignore me then you’re not worth the effort of contacting. _

_ Bye. _

The sheer amount of messages Donnie had sent before that, after Mikey had initially stopped answering, never ceased to make Mikey’s chest ache. He knew he should have responded. He knew he should have said something―at least told Donnie he just wasn’t feeling up to talking, that he was fine and just needed time to try and fix his dumb brain.

It was his own fault that Donnie had ended up angry with him, and he accepted that.

No matter how shitty he’d felt at the time, he could have at least, at a more reasonable point in time (like, he didn’t know,  _ as soon as he’d turned his phone back on four years ago _ ), apologized, given an explanation, and probably gone on with Donnie as normal. All he had to do was admit what he’d admitted to himself to Donnie, back then, and everything would have probably been fine.

He sighed heavily through his nose and backed out of the messages while his heart squeezed in his chest.

Against his better judgement, he then tapped quietly on Leo’s messages.

The last message was even longer ago than the last one he’d sent to Donnie―four and a half years ago, almost five.

_ Mikey: leo im gonna keep it real with you chief youre acting like a real fuckin douche and i dont need that in my life so if you dont have anything nice to say just dont message me cuz honestly dude? im sick of being criticized for deciding i wanted to work with kids. there is absolutely no reason for you to be so bent out of shape over it. _

Even reading back on the messages and seeing that he had had every right to call Leo on his shit, he somehow still felt that squeeze of guilt in his chest like he always did with Donnie’s messages. Like this was somehow his fault. Like it hadn’t been Leo who strained their relationship to its breaking point by spending almost every conversation he had with Mikey criticizing his career choice and telling him he should have picked something different.

Still, despite knowing he had every right, he still had to wince at his final message. His typing style was very much meant to be casual and informal, and typically he didn’t use a whole lot of punctuation―periods especially were used for severe emphasis and usually denoted anger, in a text, for him. Even if he couldn’t remember exactly how he’d felt typing that, he’d be able to figure it out just by looking at it.

Finally,  _ truly _ against his better judgement, he let himself look at his last messages with Raph, a month before his final conversation with Leo.

_ Mikey: you know what? fuck you. lose my number. i dont wanna fucking hear from you again. _

Again, he had to wince. Admittedly with Raph, he’d lost his temper much more than he had with Leo. They’d been fighting for what felt like hours before he sent that fateful message. He’d been livid, seeing red in almost every sense of the phrase.

Leo, at least, had been sort of cool and collected with his disdain for Mikey’s chosen career. He’d been fairly reasonable, even if his reasoning had been flawed. He wanted what was best for Mikey, presumably, but was  _ really _ bad at actually understanding what was best.

Raph, too,  _ probably _ just wanted to look out for him. Mikey understood that. He  _ did. _

But  _ damn _ if Raph didn’t go about it entirely the wrong way―belittling the job, calling him an idiot for taking it, telling him it wasn’t going to last and that he’d end up hating it. Not even bothering to be cool about it.

And it had boiled Mikey’s blood.

Even now it managed to spark a little bit of an angry raise in his blood pressure.

… He hated to say it, but he missed them. All of them. He wanted to just… To just go back and tell younger him to endure it. Grin and bear it and keep the job and whether they came around or not was up to them. He knew he was capable of doing that―if he’d just had the slightest  _ desire _ to grin and bear it, he could have. But he hadn’t.

And now he was alone, and desperate for money, and about one more scrap of bad news from deciding to take a swan dive off the Brooklyn Bridge.

He sighed, laying his phone aside and pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

… It was about time he got up anyway.

He managed to heave himself out of bed, padding silently through his home to force himself to eat some crackers and peanut butter before he settled down at his small desk and opened his laptop. It was back to the job search… Or maybe he could check to see if he had any commission requests despite his commissions being closed? He could probably spite himself into finishing something today.

The moment his laptop connected to the internet, his email reloaded, and he was fully prepared to scroll through them for a moment before moving on.

But the most recent one caught his attention on the spot.

_ “Thank you for your interest in…” _ It began.

He clicked on it.

_ “Thank you for your interest in the personal assistant position advertised on our blog. We are reaching out to ensure that you are still interested in the position. If so, we would love to schedule a time to speak with you in the near future. If not, please disregard this email.” _

He reread the email a good four or five times, glancing here and there at the sender. He remembered applying for this job mostly out of desperation about two days ago―he had all of the necessary qualifications listed, after all, and it was a long-term position. He wasn’t interested in the blog itself, nor was he all that familiar with the company or their boss (who he would be assisting), but he could fake it.

… Today might be a good day, after all.

Finding himself smiling a bit (because, sure, personal assistant wasn’t his dream job by any stretch, and he knew he’d slog through every single day if he got the job  _ hating _ it and wanting to go home, but it was a  _ job _ and it  _ paid good _ ), he tapped out a quick response indicating he would love to schedule a time to talk.

After it sent, he decided, fuck it, he’d try to write today.

Unsurprisingly, he found a couple of recent messages to his blog asking if his commissions were still closed, and he sent off responses to each stating that he was open to writing something, but he would be a little more selective than usual since he wasn’t sure of his own limits at the moment.

Within the hour he had an interview scheduled with the company representative he’d been emailing and a writing commission he was prepared to at least try to give his best effort to. It was going to pay him quite handsomely, after all, despite being short. The client was incredibly accommodating and chose something short for his sake as they understood he wasn’t in a great place mentally, but he’d written for them several times in the past and was well aware that they had a tendency to drop tips of more than $100 on everything they commissioned.

It was a miracle that by dinnertime he’d managed to draft, revise, and give one last looking-at to the commission. It was probably the quickest he’d finished anything since he was working on his GED and had to write an impromptu essay during one of the tests.

It was a small relief to see the commission payment sitting in his bank after he’d eaten another small meal of crackers and peanut butter. He would actually be able to get groceries this month, it seemed.

God, if he just actually  _ wrote _ he’d be able to live pretty well… But he couldn’t blame himself for not choosing to simply try to do commissions as a job. If he didn’t have the motivation to write  _ now, _ he definitely wouldn’t have it after forcing himself to write every single day to try and churn out commissions at a reasonable pace.

He was feeling rather daring, he supposed, an hour later, when he picked up his phone and opened his messages with Donnie.

He’d done this several times in the last four years―opened up the messages with intent to apologize and try to fix the mistake he made. He’d never gotten further than typing out his message before he came to his senses and deleted it. But he wasn’t going to chicken out this time. He’d had a good day since getting up, so he… He wasn’t going to be a coward.

_ Mikey: hey _

He sent, to force himself to keep going.

And then he sent eleven more messages, eventually managing to apologize as he’d intended.

All of that word vomit now in their messages, Mikey sat his phone down on the bedside table, curled up, and hoped for the best while he wrapped his arms around his midsection and gripped the edges of his shell to ground himself.

* * *

Of all of the people in his life that Donatello Hamato expected to receive twelve consecutive texts from at eight o’clock at night, his estranged brother Michelangelo was not one of them.

He hadn’t spoken to Michelangelo in four years, since the other had pretty much dropped off the face of the Earth and stopped answering his messages. He’d left him with a message declaring he wasn’t worth the effort that was equal parts true and meant to incite a response from the validation-seeking man, but it had never been answered.

He’d come to assume he’d done something to set Mikey off, frankly, and that he was probably just getting the same treatment their other brothers got from the one-time clown of their family. All this time he’d found himself desperate to know what it was, but he’d never asked. Mikey obviously wasn’t going to respond.

So, when his phone went off while he was in the middle of trying to eat a rare family dinner with his other two brothers and their aging father, he was a little confused. But, thinking it could be an emergency or a work-related question from a coworker, he’d reluctantly retrieved the device and unlocked it only to nearly drop it when he saw the contents of the notification.

“Wha’s that face for?” Raph asked, brow lifted high. “Ya look like ya’ve seen a ghost.”

“You  _ are _ looking a little pale, Don.” Leo agreed.

Donatello worked his jaw for a moment as another message popped up. Then another. The app announced that Mikey was typing again even as he finally managed to process what was happening.

“It’s…” He said hoarsely, then cleared his throat under the watchful eyes of his brothers and father, “It’s Mikey.”

_ Mikey: hey _

“Hey” was how he’d chosen to start a conversation after four years. Donatello probably would have been frustrated if it had been anyone except his chronically too casual brother. As it was he was just confused.

_ Mikey: so admittedly i dunno if this is still your number cuz its been like four years _

“ _ Mikey _ ?” Raph and Leo asked, at the same time, with the same tone of almost horrified surprise coloring their voices.

“Michelangelo is contacting you?” Their father asked, slowly, as if not sure he’d heard him correctly, “After all this time?”

He nodded, a little numbly.

“Well what’s he sayin’?” Raph demanded, and even if he seemed angry Don could see the desperate concern hidden under it.

Raphael hadn’t spoken to Mikey for the longest time out of all of them, after he’d gotten into a fight with him and had Mikey tell him in no uncertain terms that he wanted nothing to do with him, and even now it was clear he regretted every bit of it as his worry for his little brother ate him alive.

_ Mikey: which is really shitty of me and believe me i completely understand if you dont answer or you go off on me for being a douche _

_ Mikey: but i know i fucked up and even though im pretty well aware that im hella late and it probably isnt going to mean anything i wanted to apologize _

Don read over the messages, mouth dry. “... He’s, um.” He said, “I think he’s apologizing.”

“Apologizing?” Leo’s brow furrowed, “For what?”

“I dunno yet,” Don admitted, “So far he’s only alluded to having been a douche and fucked up, and admitted he knows he’s late and apologizing probably won’t mean anything.”

Their father looked troubled.

Don’s eyes returned to the phone.

_ Mikey: cuz i fucked up and i was a dick to you when you didnt do anything to deserve it and i dont have any excuses to give because really it all boils down to me being an idiot who would rather ghost my family than admit things werent going well and i was feeling like shit _

_ Mikey: i should have said something instead of self isolating and i really should have at least let you know that i was okay instead of shutting my phone off and wallowing in my own self pity until i was ready to deal with people again _

_ Mikey: so yeah _

_ Mikey: im sorry i was a huge pathetic dick who completely took you and your concern for granted and left you on read for literally four years _

_ Mikey: i know sorry doesnt fix it but at least i can say it and hope you believe that i mean it _

_ Mikey: ill leave you alone now i know youre probably busy i just really wanted to apologize _

_ Mikey: love you _

_ Mikey: bye don _

He felt a horrible tug in his chest after reading the messages as they came in.

“... He’s apologizing for not talking to me for four years.” Don eventually told his family, “And for not answering me back then. He―” He stopped short to be sure he had read it correctly, “He said that his reasoning more or less boils down to him having been more willing to isolate himself than admit he felt horrible and things weren’t going well, and that he knows that isn’t an excuse.”

There was a general silence at the table during which Donatello thought of what he might say to Mikey. Despite having been a little cross with him at first, it had been  _ four years _ , and he liked to think he was more forgiving than that. At least forgiving enough to give him another chance when he popped in to apologize.

_ Don: I forgive you. _

That was what he finally typed and sent.

_ Don: You wanna tell me what was so wrong you would rather isolate yourself than talk about back then? _

He sent, as an afterthought. An invitation to get it off of his chest. It’d probably do Mikey some good, if he was apologizing for it, to be able to talk about it.

He didn’t receive an immediate reply, but he wasn’t really expecting one. He was probably busy or hiding under his covers to escape his wounded pride.

Or, you know, he was in shock about how quickly Donnie forgave him.

That was an option, too.

“Michelangelo was never one to self-isolate unless something was seriously wrong,” Their father finally said, still looking troubled, “To think that he has been dealing with something of that magnitude on his own for all this time…”

“He was always a people person,” Leo agreed, “He couldn’t stand being alone when he was feeling okay.”

“He seemed to be very weary the last time I spoke to him,” Said their father, in turn. “I had asked him if something was wrong before he left to return to his new home, and he seemed as if he might say yes, but… He told me no, and that I had nothing to worry about. Perhaps if I would have pressed…”

“If you pressed, he’d have closed himself off,” Donnie reasoned.

Their father seemed to accept this as fact, nodding in understanding.

The rest of the dinner was a little tense as they all worried and wondered what Mikey could possibly be going through without them.

* * *

It took nearly an hour of staring at the messages from Donnie for Mikey to manage a reply. That was almost two hours after they had been sent. He reasoned to himself that Donnie likely wasn’t expecting a prompt reply, but it still felt… Overwhelming, really.

Donnie  _ forgave _ him.

No preamble, no real probing into why he’d ghosted―just like that. Forgiveness was only 12 rambling texts away this whole time.

It was simultaneously disgruntling and relieving to know that it was that easy. That he’d been making a mountain out of a molehill, apparently. Donnie didn’t even seem mad at him; really he seemed more curious.

_ Mikey: woke up one morning after you started college and thought to myself “damn, i really dont have the energy to live today” and it only got worse from there _

_ Mikey: ended up quitting my job not long after _

_ Mikey: was super ashamed of myself and didnt really wanna bug you or sensei _

_ Mikey: was so pissed at myself after i stopped visiting that i couldnt even bring myself to read your messages and ended up shutting my phone off for two days _

_ Mikey: you know, typical young adult stuff _

It was probably a little less expressive and explanatory than Donnie would be hoping for, but Mikey really didn’t have the energy to tell the story like he’d probably tell it under ‘normal’ circumstances. Lord knew he’d have had a lot more to say if he didn’t still sort of feel like crap, especially when thinking about the events that eventually led to where he was today.

Donnie’s reply was pretty much immediate, in comparison to Mikey’s.

_ Don: Are you alright? _

_ Because it sounds to me like you might need some help. _

He couldn’t help snorting, at that, as he laid in bed. If only Donnie fucking  _ knew. _

He imagined his brother was  _ probably _ only thinking he needed help because of the whole not having the energy to live thing, and he would be right about that. But God was there so much more than that going on.

Still, even as he snorted he felt something vaguely warm in his chest. Something… Nice.

… He really hoped Donnie didn’t have anything important to be doing right now.

_ Mikey: ima keep it unreal engine 4 with ya chief i havent been ‘alright’ by most definitions since i stopped talking to leo and raph _

_ Mikey: and youre probably right but i dont have the money for therapy soooo _

_ Mikey: ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ _

_ Mikey: but enough about me how are you _

He really didn’t expect for Donnie to take that bait. The genius of the family would be able to see right through that not at all subtle attempt to circumvent telling him what was actually wrong. But it had also been four years, and Donnie wasn’t likely to want to pry this early on. He would probably still be kind of shocked Mikey was even talking to him, he was sure.

_ Don: I’ll be honest, Mike, I’m a little bothered that you decided to message to apologize to me today. _

Mikey winced a little, but figured that was to be expected. It  _ had  _ been four years, after all. Of course it would bother Donnie.

_ Don: Like, leave it to you to pick the night I’m having dinner with Leo, Raph, AND Sensei to text me twelve times in a row and make all three of them have a simultaneous heart attack when I told them who was texting me. _

… Okay, not the reasoning he was expecting, but still fair.

Some part of him that apparently specialized in finding humor where there was none thought it was funny that he’d inadvertently completed family night. All four of Sensei’s sons had actually sort of been there for a dinner for the first time since Mikey got his first job, even if Mikey’s only interaction had been through text.

He wondered what the others had said. He wondered what Sensei was up to these days.

_ Don: You should visit dad, by the way. He misses you. _

… That was a good point.

_ Mikey: i miss him too _

_ Mikey: ill probably drop in at some point this month, maybe _

_ Mikey: i gotta see if i land this job before i make any real plans bc if i dont get it im not gonna be leaving my bed or answering my phone for a hot minute and id feel bad telling him id come only to end up being a disgrace by not honoring that promise because i didnt get the job and went into a downward spiral that i should be perfectly capable of handling since im a fucking adult _

_ Mikey: whoops sorry that was a lot _

The space between replies this time was a lot longer. Mikey was starting to worry he’d scared Donnie off, said too much. But before he could start curling in on himself again his phone went off in his hand.

_ Don: Yeah, no, I think seeing dad would do BOTH of you a lot of good. You obviously need to relax. _

_ Don: But what’s this about a job? Are you unemployed right now? _

_ Mikey: havent been able to land a long term position in like two years so yeah im not working right now but i have an interview tomorrow that’s hopefully gonna land me a job as a PA to the CEO of some tiny local business _

_ Mikey: anyways what are you up to? like jobwise and stuff _

_ Please, _ Mikey thought,  _ let him actually take the bait this time. _

As much as he absolutely did want to talk to Donnie and tell him all of the things he’d been doing for the past four years, he’d really rather listen to Donnie tell him about what he’d been up to. He was sure it was more exciting and heart-warming than him sitting around his apartment job-hunting and eating peanut butter on crackers for two years and being constantly discriminated against by the manager who sacked him for the two years before that.

_ Don: I’m actually working in research and development for a local business. They hired me pretty much straight out of college about a month ago and boy am I glad for it. _

_ Don: They pay me enough that I’m actually making some progress in finally fixing dad’s place up and it’s barely even affecting how I live. _

So Donnie had a good job that he seemed to like? Hell yeah. Mikey could get behind that―as long as Don was happy and doing something with the degree he must have worked his ass off to get.

_ Mikey: oh hella _

_ Mikey: im really glad to hear that actually _

_ Mikey: its about time you get a chance to put your mind to good use and get paid for it _

_ Mikey: lord knows it was wasted when you were using it on the three of us and trying to keep us alive through all our dumb antics _

_ Mikey: especially mine _

_ Mikey: im still sorry about the cattle prod debacle _

Even thinking about that particular event now had Mikey cringing. He regretted every decision leading up to that. And he meant  _ every _ decision. As in  _ every decision he ever made in his entire life  _ up until that. It was horrible, and if he could go back and change it you bet your ass he would.


	2. the delirium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Future fic w/ fantasy illness thrown in. The Void Delirium has been killing people off for years. Donnie is working on a cure.

Donatello “Donnie” Hamato considered himself to be a simple man.

He was intelligent and well-trained, and in private all he really needed was a strong hug, a strong drink, and as little discussion concerning politics as humanly possible. He had simple wants and needs, like a quiet place to work and a warm place to sleep. He even kept what he liked to eat simple―anything he didn’t actually have to cook was fair game, as he had proved to himself and several roommates on countless occasions that one could, in fact, burn water.

He was in his mid-twenties, one of the youngest doctors in his field (if not  _ the  _ youngest), and generally he was fairly well-respected by those around him. He kept mostly to himself if given the choice. He avoided talking and most times even  _ thinking _ about the political state of his country. He steered well clear of any gossip and avidly avoided giving anyone any ammunition to use against him in it.

See?

Simple.

But, though he was a simple man, his life was anything but.

He worked, primarily, as one of the many scientists employed by the country’s government, which already complicated his life and his attempts to avoid talking or thinking about politics. He was stationed, along with a team of eight others, in Blackwater Keep, which was of course a sort of horrible little laboratory on the docks of what used to be Brooklyn where he was expected to run tests and study everything they had until he came up with something that would help stop the spread of the so-called “Void Delirium” afflicting most of the population. He and the other eight were all, apparently, quite immune to it or simply hadn’t caught it yet, which made them wonderful candidates for attempting to cure it.

He hadn’t yet received permission to experiment on himself to see if he was immune or not, because the superiors weren’t eager to let him infect himself on the too-high chance that he was not, in fact, immune.

…

None of the was the point.

The point was, he considered himself to be a simple man, and generally a man of at least  _ decent _ moral standing. He kept out of trouble when he could and typically he made an attempt to just go to and from work every day and spend as little time interacting with people as possible. He did everything in his power not to piss anyone off or get involved with the rebellion that had risen up in recent years to combat the government’s hold.

So he wasn’t entirely sure how he ended up in this situation, though he had to admit that as a government-employed scientist he wasn’t terribly surprised, either.

“Hands up,  _ beak. _ ” The gun-toting rebel before him spat angrily.

Seeing as Donnie wasn’t stupid and didn’t carry a gun, he chose not to contest the order. He lifted his arms slowly above his head, palms out, and stood very still. He’d really like to get this over with and go home, if at all possible, but somehow he doubted that was going to happen. The rebels weren’t exactly known for their mercy toward anyone with government ties, and given he’d been called a  _ beak, _ he knew that this rebel knew he was employed by the government.

“Listen,” He said, voice even, “I don’t want trouble. I’m just trying to get home.”

The rebel snorted derisively from behind their mask, eyes visibly narrowing. “I don’t care what you’re trying to do, beak. Should have walked a different way.”

“You’re probably right,” Donnie chose to say, “But there’s nothing I can do about that now.”

Behind the rebel pointing a gun at him was a small group of similarly dressed people, so he assumed he’d accidentally walked into a meeting or startled a recon group. None of the others seemed to be paying him any mind―just the one aiming at his face.

“No there isn’t.” The rebel agreed, adjusting their stance.

Donnie noticed they looked off-balance. They would be easy to disarm and take down, if he really put his mind to it. But he hadn’t practiced any of the necessary movements in so many years that there was little point trying. He was terribly rusty.

His father would be so disappointed in him, if he knew he’d gotten so out of practice.

But, much like the situation he was in right now, there wasn’t much he could do to remedy that issue.

So he just remained standing there, hands above his head, carefully watching this masked rebel shift on their feet, adjusting their aim every few seconds. It was tense and surprisingly quiet.

Distantly, he wondered why he hadn’t been shot yet.

And then he heard a groan and a wet cough from the group behind the gunman. His eyes snapped to the group, that old protective instinct lurching back to life. Was someone hurt? He scanned the group to see who could have made the noises, eyes raking over several unhurt but half-hunched forms before landing on what appeared to be the legs of someone lying down on their back.

Another wet cough came from that general area, and Donnie’s eyes narrowed. Was this why he’d been stopped? There was an injured rebel, and they wanted no chance of him hurting them worse?

“Skitters,” One of the group turned toward the gunman, “We need to get him out of here.”

“We shouldn’t move him,” The gunman, Skitters, argued, not taking their eyes off of Donnie despite their posture indicating they wanted to, “It’ll just make it worse. We have to stay.”

“If we don’t get him medical attention he’ll  _ die.” _ The other argued, distressed.

“If we move him we risk killing him ourselves anyway.” Skitters reasoned, but it was clear they were growing distressed as well.

Another turned away from the apparently injured rebel. “You,” They said, and Donnie figured they were probably talking to him, “You’re a beak, yeah? You just a scientist?”

“I have a medical license,” He told them, voice still calm, “And a bag full of supplies.”

Skitters’ eyes at last left Donnie to stare at the one who had asked the question even as they nodded and turned toward the other.

“If we keep Skitters on him, he could help.” They told the other, who nodded with clear reluctance.

Skitters’ eyes widened in clear disbelief, “You can’t be serious. You wanna let a beak near  _ Blitz?” _

“A beak with a medical license and supplies,” Said the same one, matter-of-factly, “And if he makes a move to hurt Blitz worse you can pop him.” They looked to Donnie, “Seem fair?”

“I have no objections.” He said, and he was glad for all the training he had as a child because his upraised arms weren’t getting tired just yet… And he was managing to stay calm in a situation most of his coworkers both before and after his stationing at Blackwater Keep would have shit their pants in. He guessed that was the benefit of having discipline drilled into his head from such an early age.

Skitters still didn’t seem pleased, but he turned back to Donnie, who hadn’t moved an inch, and huffed. “Fine,” He said, “Pyro, check his bag to make sure he actually has those supplies.”

The first to turn swiftly walked over, and Donnie held completely still as they walked to his side, ducking under his arm to pull up the flap of his messenger bag.

“Under the mask,” He advised, seeing them frown at the bird-faced mask he had to wear while on the clock, “In the main pocket.”

They shot him a look, then removed the mask from the bag with the sort of disdainful touch that one tended to reserve for something they found to be truly disgusting. They held it away from themself, though they didn’t drop it as he’d feared, and rifled through the main pocket of his bag with their free hand.

After a moment, they stood and backed away, still holding the mask. “He’s got the supplies.” They said.

Skitters sighed and nodded, stepping somewhat to the side and motioning for Donnie to walk forward. “No funny business, yeah? I’ll be watching.”

Donnie slowly lowered his arms as he walked forward, and the group of rebels slowly drew back from the one on the ground. Blitz, he thought he remembered them being called. He heard Skitters walking behind him, and Pyro behind them. He came to kneel at Blitz’ side and quietly rifled through his bag to get the supplies he needed. He laid out a scrap of fabric he kept for this purpose, then sat all of his medical supplies on it.

Turning his gaze to Blitz’s from there, he surveyed the rebel’s form to see if he could find where they’d been injured. The front of their shirt appeared to be torn and soaked through with blood. He frowned. That could either be a stab, a cut, or a gunshot… He had the necessary gear to take care of all of it, of course, because he was a firm believer in preparing for every eventuality,  _ including _ needing to perform borderline surgery in a dirty sidestreet, but it would still be difficult to treat if it was a gunshot or a deep cut or stab.

He slipped on a pair of gloves from his supplies, reminded himself he’d need to steal a few more from work soon, and carefully pushed up the rebel’s soaked black shirt.

There was a long cut across their abdomen. A quick investigation revealed it was not terribly deep, but would need stitches unless he still had any of that expensive rapid-healing goop he’d gotten as a Christmas present from a coworker who’d found out he’d been a medical doctor to begin with.

He couldn’t think of any reason why he  _ wouldn’t _ still have some, because he didn’t use it terribly often, but one never knew.

First order of business, regardless, was cleaning the wound.

He retrieved a water bottle and a rag from his stash, wetting the rag with the liquid and setting to work carefully wiping away the blood and then patting the wound dry. It really wasn’t as deep a wound as it could have been, that was good. That meant he could actually help, and that hopefully this person wouldn’t die on his watch.

The bruising building all over Blitz’ abdomen wasn’t promising, however, nor were the wet coughs he’d heard earlier. The weak groans and hisses he was getting right now  _ were _ promising, because that meant his patient was still alive and breathing and still aware enough to know, if vaguely, what was happening.

Next came the antiseptic, which he knew from experience stung something  _ awful _ . He wished it wasn’t necessary, but he couldn’t chance that rag having left anything behind nor could he chance something nasty from the air around them having a chance to bind to the wetness and go nuts in the wound. So he grabbed his strongest antiseptic and a cotton ball.

“This will burn.” He informed Blitz, not looking to see if they acknowledged the information and instead focusing on setting to work truly cleaning the wound.

They hissed and their abdomen went very tense for a moment before they relaxed. He continued on as if they hadn’t so much as twitched, making sure he got every single inch of their wound completely clean. He used about twenty cotton balls in the process, but found he wasn’t exactly mourning the loss of them as he neatly piled them between his knees to be disposed of later.

Turning back toward his supplies, he searched for the jar of rapid-healing salve. Finding he did, indeed, still have it, he made a small sound of triumph. That would simplify things immensely.

He took off his still rather bloody gloves and exchanged them for a new, clean pair before retrieving the jar.

“What the hell is that?” He heard Skitters ask, protectively.

Before Donnie could reply, one of the rebels spoke up. “It’s that super pricey quick-heal shit. I’m surprised he has any―doesn’t look like one of the richies who can afford to buy it on the reg.”

“I’m not,” Donnie chose to say as he unscrewed the cap, “It was a gift.”

“Who the hell gives healing gel as a gift?” Pyro asked with a snort.

Donnie felt his lips pull up at the corners. He dipped his fingers into the jar to get some of the salve and turned to begin applying it.

“Scientists, apparently.” He said, rather amused.

There was a general sort of mumble of agreement that, thankfully, sounded like it was amused. That was good. At least he was able to keep the mood fairly friendly―Lord knew morale-boosting wasn’t his strong suit. That had always…

That had always been Mikey’s deal.

The thought of his brother made his heart thud hollowly in his chest, an ache he was all-too familiar with starting up with a vengeance.

He pushed through it and covered Blitz’ wound with the salve without letting himself display any degree of upset. It wouldn’t do to let himself get too deep into his feelings at the moment. He had a job to be doing.

The wound didn’t immediately begin to seal, but it wasn’t meant to. The salve sped things up considerably, but the wound wouldn’t close at the skin-level for a couple of moments. It had to seal at the lower levels first. It would leave only the barest hints of a scar within an hour.

“Are you aware of any further injuries I can assist with?” He asked, discarding his gloves for a second time.

He  _ really _ needed to steal more from work tomorrow.

It was a dangerous business, of course―stealing from a laboratory. He could get into some very hot water with his superiors if they found out he’d been sneaking supplies home. But it was worth it, because simply stealing a handful of sterile gloves every once in a while was significantly cheaper than having to go out and buy his own whenever he ran out. He may have been a government-employed scientist, but he wasn’t exactly rolling in the dough. He still had bills and food to buy, after all―if he’d just move into the dormitories in the lab with some of his coworkers he could eliminate a significant chunk of his monthly costs, of course, but he liked having his own space as far away from the lab as he could reasonably get.

He hated the vibes the place gave off. He really did.

But he needed the job and frankly it was, even if he wasn’t rich, the best paying job he was going to get with his current qualifications.

There was a low mumble from the whole group.

“I think he might have a couple of broken ribs,” Pyro finally spoke up, “He got hit pretty hard in the gut.”

Donnie pulled on a new set of gloves and pressed carefully into Blitz’ abdomen, over his ribs. A few presses here and there and some  _ not great _ reactions from Blitz, and Donnie was pretty sure Pyro was right. He seemed to have at least one broken rib (Donnie could never be sure without X-Rays), and there was very little Donnie could do about it at the current moment. The treatment for broken ribs was typically summed up as “leave it alone, don’t move too much, don’t wrap anything tightly around your waist, and for the love of god try to breathe like a normal person so you don’t get pneumonia”. Other treatment staples were pain medication and ice packs, only one of which did he have on his person.

“You’re probably right.” He admitted to Pyro, “But there’s not much that can be done about broken ribs aside from leaving them alone and letting them heal. I can offer pain meds, at most, and tell you he’ll need an ice pack and to not do anything labor intensive for about six weeks to two months, but other than that…”

He glanced at the other rebels and saw Pyro and the one who had had the idea for him to help Blitz nodding their understanding. This would probably be all they needed him for, frankly. It still wasn’t a great idea to move Blitz, by any means, but for the most part they’d be able to at least get him to safety knowing what seemed to be wrong.

He wasn’t sure why they thought he’d die from a knife wound and a couple of broken ribs, if he was honest, but then, he wasn’t a rebel. He had health insurance and generally kept his nose out of trouble if he could. He had it pretty good, by all estimates―thinking about the associated risks of being a rebel, he could think of a few reasons a knife wound and a couple of broken ribs might spell the end of your life.

For one, there was the matter of infections, which could easily develop into a true sickness, and in the worst cases, into Void Delirium, which was said to be hard enough on those infected with it that they’d rather be shot than deal with the symptoms… Though, that last part could have been exaggeration. He did, after all, work with a bunch of assholes.

There was also the issue of moving him too much if he had a broken rib, as jostling it could crack it further and  _ that _ could lead to the puncture of an important organ, like his kidneys or his liver, which wouldn’t be a pleasant way to go either.

And then there was the chance the group would be found by a government patrol and killed on sight if they stayed in one spot.

At least with his involvement the chances of infection were much lower, which would at least keep Blitz from getting sick.

As a doctor, that was all Donnie really wanted for anyone.

As a matter of principle, when asked, he would readily tell anyone who asked that he sided fully with his government, and that rebels should be killed. That, if he found a rebel, he would call the authorities and let them deal with it. In theory, it made him a devout loyalist unlikely to be suspected of anything unsavory. In practice, it was a horrible, horrible lie.

Truth be told, he really couldn’t  _ stand _ the government or their policies. He hated the way rebels were treated, hated that they could and would be shot on sight by government patrols. Though he tried to stay out of the way, he was still willing and able to help rebels who needed it―he just had to say that he wasn’t for the sake of his job and his family. If he gave off the impression he was at all against the government, his father and brothers would pay the price with him, and he wasn’t willing to risk that.

He’d already lost his baby brother.

He  _ couldn’t _ lose his older brothers, too, and he absolutely could not lose his father before his true time came.

He sighed and looked back to Blitz.

“We need to get him out of here,” Skitters uttered.

“We’ll never get him back to base,” Pyro sighed, “We can’t carry him that far without risking hurting him worse.”

“You were the one willing to move him earlier,” The gunman accused, “And now you’re saying no?”

“I’m just trying to be reasonable,” Pyro argued, “We can try to get him out of here, but we have nowhere safe to go except for base!”

“If I may,” Donnie turned to look at them again, “I live right around the corner.” He offered, calmly, “I have a spare bedroom you could hide out in until it’s safe to move him.”

“Why should we trust you, beak?” Skitters asked, eyes narrowed, “I’ve seen you before. I’ve heard the shit you say about us.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Donnie said, sighing, “I regret your first impression of me being what I say in order to cover my ass.”

“Sure.” Skitters snorted derisively.

“I don’t expect you to believe me.” Donnie shrugged a bit, “Frankly, I wouldn’t believe me, either, no matter what the story is.”

“What  _ is _ the story?” Pyro asked, eyebrow lifted.

They sounded more annoyed than curious, but there was definitely curiosity there.

“I lost my little brother a few years ago,” He said, “Apparently to the Delirium. That’s why I started working for the government to find a cure… Which was a mistake, I’ll readily admit. For as long as I work for them I have to be on guard and very careful what I say in front of them. If I give the slightest hint I’m not on their side one hundred percent, the rest of my family is as good as dead. I’m not willing to risk that. I refuse to be responsible for their deaths.”

Skitters snorted again, sounding angry. “And what about the rebels who deserve to die? The ones you’ll happily call the dogs on?”

“No one deserves to die.” Donnie turned back to Blitz, “If I really believed anyone deserved it, it wouldn’t be the people trying to get the government out of power. But, again, I don’t expect you to believe me. My offer stands, regardless.”

There was a silence.

“What did you mean,” One he hadn’t heard speak yet asked after a moment, “When you said your brother ‘apparently’ died of the Delirium?”

“I never noticed any symptoms of it in him, and as a doctor I was trained to recognize them and try to begin treatment immediately. Then, one day, he was just… Gone. We never found his body, so the guard figured he’d gotten the Delirium and decided to put himself out of his misery in the river.”

It hurt to think about Mikey. It really,  _ really _ did. He wished the rebels would just shoot him or something, already, if they weren’t going to take his offer and/or move on. It’d be better than having to sit here and spill his tragic backstory to them. And, you know, if he was dead, he got to see Mikey again.

It’d make for a hell of a story―“I helped some rebels and then they shot me because I worked for the government, trying to cure the Delirium.”

Mikey would love it.

Aside from the whole him getting shot part, at least.

There was a mumble from the group behind him, and he simply occupied himself checking Blitz over again to be sure he wasn’t injured in any other way Donnie could assist with. There was nothing obvious, so he just watched the cut finish sealing itself. There was only the barest scar.

“Fine,” Skitters finally said, still sounding rather angry. “Fine, lead the way, I guess.”

“Sure.” Donnie spent a moment putting his supplies back into his bag, then stood and stepped around Blitz.

“I’m checking your place out first,” Skitters informed him as they stepped up to him, “So no funny business. I’ll come back and get them when I’m sure it’s safe.”

Donnie nodded, and then he led the way.

He unlocked his front door when they finally arrived, stepping aside and quietly allowing Skitters to check over the entire apartment, his bedroom included. He just waited next to the front door. It took several minutes, but when Skitters seemed satisfied they grumpily stalked back out.

Donnie took the time he was gone retrieving the other rebels to have a bit of an existential crisis. What was he doing? If he got caught harboring rebels he was just as dead as he’d be if he so much as voiced favor for them. Only difference was that it wouldn’t be a quick death. He’d be branded a traitor, tried, convicted, and  _ then _ killed, if they didn’t choose to torture him at any stage of that process.

Lacking any better ideas, he chose to scream quietly into his hands for a long moment before doing anything else.

He had just finished up and moved to the kitchen when he heard his door open again.

He didn’t even turn to watch the rebels filter in, he just retrieved one of the icepacks he kept in his freezer, wrapped it in a hand towel, and handed it off to one of the rebels before leading the group into the spare bedroom and clearing off the bed so that the two carrying Blitz could lay him down. He left them to their own devices, sure they knew what to do, and went to hang his bag up by the front door.

Pyro and Skitters had remained in the front room, and both seemed to be watching him like hawks. He wasn’t terribly surprised. No matter what he said to them, he was still a government scientist. He could have called the dogs on them while they were on their way with Blitz. He could just be waiting for them to fall asleep so he could call the dogs.

He didn’t blame them for distrusting him.

He toed off his shoes, winced at the realization he’d walked through his apartment wearing them and that all of his guests were still wearing theirs, and hung his coat and labcoat up on their hooks.

“Is it terribly much to ask that you take your shoes off?” He found himself asking as he turned back toward Pyro and Skitters.

Pyro, who had temporarily turned their attention to his interior decorating, apparently, looked at him with clear interest before stepping back to the door to slip their shoes off.

“You have a lot of Asian overtones in here.” They said, probingly.

“My father is Japanese.” Donnie replied with a shrug.

As soon as he said it, Skitters had the grace to look just a little ashamed. He wondered why for a moment before Skitters, too, was heading to the door to take their shoes off. Ah.

So Skitters didn’t believe he wasn’t the bastard he was at work, but they believed he was of Japanese heritage and respected it enough to take their shoes off at his request.

He could work with that.


End file.
